


Ecosystem Engineering and the Werewolf

by Guede



Series: Sustainable Management [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actual Pack Hunting Tactics, Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst and Humor, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, BDSM, Bloodplay, Bondage, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Erotic Electrostimulation, Gray Hat Everyone, Gray Hat Peter, Humiliation, Incest, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Werewolf Courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:15:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4678247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and his dad work for the U.S. Forest Service, which sends them to Beacon Hills.  It’d be nice if Stiles could stop running into the Hales.  He’s got bodies to get rid of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ecosystem Engineering and the Werewolf

On his first day in Beacon Hills, Stiles kills his English teacher.

He did mean to kill her. Intel had all checked out just fine, and then, when he’d gotten her into the alley behind the bar, she’d whipped out a knife with _definitely_ too many runes (who the hell needed anti-scurvy protection these days?) and gone at him. True, he didn’t know she was his English teacher till he’d riffled through her clothes and found the ID badge, but that wouldn’t have changed anything.

It does, he thinks as he heaves her body into the car trunk, make things slightly more awkward. English has always been one of his best subjects, so he’s had no problem getting his teachers on his side for emergency hall passes, skipped detentions, that sort of thing. This late notice, they might have to get a substitute teacher rotation going, and that’s going to be a pain to work around. His dad isn’t going to be thrilled.

“Excuse me,” says a man behind him.

Stiles eeps and flails madly, then spins around. The car trunk is shut, teacher’s bagged up in a nondescript duffel anyway, no stains, he already stripped off his gloves. Nothing unusual here, nosiree, but Jesus, who the hell creeps up on teenage boys in dark parking lots?

“Sorry,” says the man. The hot man. The man with the light eyes dark hair combo that instinctively drags Stiles’ eyes over him a second time, smiling at him with big, white teeth that imply all sorts of delicious gobbling up. He’s older, DILF territory, except that the flat belly and tight guns sculpting his dress shirt suggest he’d really rather like to fuck you.

Also, werewolf. Stiles suppresses another panicked flail and leans back against the car like he’s catching his breath, and _not at all_ like he’s furtively checking his scent-disguising wards. “Holy shit, what the hell do you want? Aside from a coronary?”

“You sound fine to me,” the man says dismissively. Then he takes a step closer. He makes a gesture with his hand, which is politely hesitant and which does not at all match the very, very sure amusement in his eyes. “I was wondering if you’d seen a woman come outside? Dark brown hair, about this tall—” his playacting hand happens to coincidentally almost brush Stiles’ cheek “—and wearing a red dress?”

Basically, Stiles’ dead English teacher. Stiles shakes his head. “Nope, sorry, dude. Did she stand you up?”

The man laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, thankfully, no. She’s my nephew’s blind date. At least, she was supposed to be. The bartender said she’d gone out ten minutes ago and never come back.”

“Sucks to be him,” Stiles says. “Guess you’d better go in and tell him it’s a wash.”

“I came out here to apologize for my nephew standing _her_ up. Someone has to uphold the family reputation,” the man says. He sidles another few inches towards Stiles, and the way his eyes are licking over Stiles, the remaining space between them seems completely irrelevant. “Although now that that seems unnecessary, I really don’t have any reason to stay here. It would be a shame if your first introduction to this town was this outpost of mediocrity.”

“Wearing the fresh meat sign, am I?” Stiles lifts his hand and rubs at the side of his head, working the bravado. Maybe he crooks his neck a little, turns his wrist to show some underside, and maybe, _maybe_ , it’s on purpose. The guy is really, really hot.

His English teacher is really, really dead. Goddamn it.

“Well, I appreciate the welcome to the neighborhood, but I’ve gotta get home,” Stiles says, regretfully choking the shit out of his bad ideas. He leans in towards the man, who is definitely leaking a little wolfy glow into his eyes, and then side-step hip swivels his way out of the danger zone, getting the car keys out while he’s at it. “Sorry, curfew, paranoid single parent. It’d be really bad if I ended up on a news bulletin when we just moved here.”

“Yes, that would be terrible,” says the man. He lets Stiles go, but not without sounding like that news bulletin would be a really trashy, exploitative, sex ‘n sex ‘n more sex exclusive special report. “Though the offer stands, if you ever find yourself with time before that curfew of yours.”

“Thanks?” Stiles says, and ducks into his car before he hears anything else. He is a _professional_ , damn it. He is pulling out, and not looking at the sexy werewolf, and he is getting rid of this stupid body.

He is so over this town already.

* * *

“Dad?” Stiles calls. He bangs open the front door and then slings his work bag onto the nearest chair. “Dad, hey, listen, so the—”

“Stiles.” His dad appears in the kitchen doorway with two mugs in his hand. He doesn’t get Stiles coffee, Stiles gets him coffee, so shit, they have company. “Stiles, I thought you said you’d be back—”

“Um, yeah, well, I kind of got lost.” Stiles steps back and grabs the door frame so he can toe off his sneakers, kick them onto the porch. They’ve got dirt from burying the body on them, and he hasn’t had time to fully ward the house so if he brings them in, anybody with super-scent abilities will pick up on it. Then he shifts the grocery bag he’s still holding to one arm and digs into it with the other, picking out the garlic. He crushes a clove, then pulls out a box of veggie burgers. “I think we’re gonna have to change phone plans, the GPS wasn’t working half the time, but hey, look what I found! You like this brand, remember, the juices almost look real when you cut it.”

His dad looks vaguely ill. The guy who’s appeared over his dad’s shoulder looks terminally unimpressed.

The guy is also extremely attractive. Younger than the parking-lot dude, with a shock of carefully-tousled thick black hair that makes Stiles’ fingers itch to pet it, some really nice hints of muscle under the clingy shirt, and damn it, werewolf. What the hell with this town, Stiles thinks. He’s a professional, but he’s also still under twenty and this night is just not fair.

“Stiles, this is Derek Hale,” his dad says. He hands Derek one of the mugs. “He’s representing the local pack and came over to invite us to dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.” Stiles puts the veggie burgers back in the bag, hefting it pointedly, and the other two men make room for him to get to the kitchen. He sets it on the counter, heels the fridge door open, and then starts transferring stuff. “Thanks, that’s nice of you.”

“We’ve always had a good relationship with the Forest Service,” Derek says, shrugging. “Just wanted to keep that up. Mom also thought you might like a little help with cooking till the rest of your things get here.”

Stiles’ dad smiles his business smile. “Thanks, that’s very thoughtful of her.”

“Yeah, it’s always a pain in the ass, these last-minute relocations,” Stiles says, stacking frozen dinners. “Speaking of, Dad, the moving company finally gave me a call back. Left a voicemail, said the driver had to stop overnight in Colorado.”

His dad blinks. “Colorado?”

“Yeah. Colorado.” Stiles looks at him over the top of the fridge door. “So…you want me to call them, or—”

“No. No, I’ll…goddamn it, St—stupid idiots,” his dad mutters. He looks at Stiles like Stiles is going to be on grunt patrol for the next week, then sighs and turns to Derek. “Sorry, I’ve got to call my supervisor. Do you mind if I step outside for a second?”

Derek shrugs. Stiles’ dad goes out to make that call, and also, do something about the teacher’s car. It’s not like Stiles is _proud_ of them having the third-highest vehicle chop rate in their division, it just happens. 

So Stiles is out of food to move around. He takes his head out of the fridge and Derek is scraping some coffee off his lower lip with his teeth, and angled so his cheekbones look particularly lickable. Stiles wonders if he can get away with standing in front of the fridge all night.

“My mom thinks you’re in high school.” Derek says that not quite as a question, not quite as a statement. He looks very annoyed by this uncertainty, but also, he looks like he’s determined to be as awkward as necessary to get through this. It’s disturbingly endearing. “What year are you?”

“Senior, probably,” Stiles says. “Hopefully. I should be one, but it’s a new state so they’ll probably placement-test the shit out of me tomorrow.”

Derek nods. He shifts on his feet like he wants to pad around the kitchen island. “Do you…do you do anything outside of school? I mean, have interests?”

Stiles simultaneously wants to laugh his head off and stick his hand down Derek’s really, ridiculously tight pants. He settles for standing up and grabbing the nearest thing that comes to hand, which turns out to be a banana. Fuck his life.

But he likes bananas, so he peels it. “So lemme guess, you’re the closest in age and your mom thought it’d be nice if somebody made friends with me?”

Derek looks embarrassed, but he doesn’t bother trying to front. “Yeah, basically.”

“Well, tell her that my best friend’s a werewolf, I’m looking into the lacrosse team, I recently retired from tournament GMing, I once broke my finger sticking it in a wooden fence, and…um, I hate pixie infestations.” Stiles takes a bite of the banana. It’s not totally ripe. Seriously, _fuck his life_. “We had to camp out in a hotel room for three weeks once while they exterminated our rental house, and after we moved back, everything tasted like bitter almonds. That should be good for at least a month, I’d think.”

For a second Derek stares him like Stiles is speaking a foreign language. Then he snorts. His mouth twitches, pulls up and back, and shit, when he smiles he looks a totally different brand of gorgeous. “Why the lacrosse team?” he says, like he’s genuinely interested.

“I played it a little at my old school, don’t feel like upping and buying all-new gear in the middle of the…shit.” He’s slipping, Stiles thinks, stuffing the rest of the banana savagely into his mouth. He should be able to spiel out cover stories in his sleep, but this whole night has him thrown.

“My family’s got a discount at the sporting goods store in the mall,” Derek offers. He smiles again. “I can drive you over after school, and then take you to our house for dinner.”

“That—”

“That sounds like a great idea. Thank you, Derek,” Stiles’ dad says, coming back in. He levels a warning look at Stiles. “Since apparently, our things will be in Colorado for at least two days. Engine trouble.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Derek,” Stiles says unhappily. “That’s really nice of you.”

“It’s no problem,” Derek says.

* * *

“It’s totally a problem.” Stiles slouches against his shovel and glowers at his dad. Turns out they’re even on the first-night, new-town, dead-body hassle. “It’s a problem that our stupid advance scouts can’t bother to do their fucking jobs and inform us that the Hale pack is smash-your-face-in hot. And flirty. Really, really flirty.”

“Stiles, you will not date either of them,” his father says. “This isn’t that kind of assignment.”

“I know! That’s what I’m saying!” Stiles cries. He throws up a last shovel-ful of dirt, then crawls out of the hole. “Why do I have to integrate, again? Is this really necessary? Can’t I just stalk around in the shadows and creep up on people? It’s what they do!”

“No.” His dad crawls out after him, then walks around to check the east-west alignment. “All right, I’m going to go check the tree. You good to wrap up here?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles sighs. “But just remember, it’s not my fault if dinner blows up this time.”

* * *

Their advance scouts aren’t actually stupid. Their advance scouts are really pretty awesome, and Stiles isn’t saying that just because Melissa McCall basically co-opted him and his father after his mother died, or because Scott has helped him handle twelve unreported collateral damage incidents. But Melissa has been trying to convince his dad to take a permanent posting (specifically, in or near Beacon Hills) for years, so nice as she is, Stiles does suspect shenanigans. And Scott is kind of oblivious about things like werewolf sexual interest cues. Even though Scott is a werewolf.

Anyway. Stiles tries to get Scott to come with him and Derek to get lacrosse gear, for absolutely plausible reasons (Scott knows the league requirements, he knows their coach, he knows Stiles’ need for hiding places for various weapons), but Scott blows him off. For a girl.

Okay, it’s for Allison Argent, and that’s, admittedly, just about as plausible since they are under orders to re-evaluate Chris now that the traditional mourning period for Victoria is over, but seriously, Scott sucks.

And then Derek picks him up in a sleek black muscle car, wearing a leather jacket, and bringing him a Tupperware container that turns out to have delicious potato and onion pasties in it. “Dinner’s on the later side so Mom was worried you’d be hungry,” he says.

Stiles isn’t too proud to take someone else’s homemade food, especially when the only non-weapon knife he and his dad currently have is a paring knife. He thanks Derek and then manages to stretch out his eating so that he mumbles through the entire conversation on the way to the store.

It’s not really that illuminating anyway. Derek mostly has questions from his mom about their dietary needs, and has to take a call from her in the middle of it to relay Stiles’ answers back. Yes, Stiles is vegetarian, no, his dad isn’t but his dad has some health concerns, no, not serious, no, fish is okay, no, no biggie if everybody else has roast venison in front of them. Thank you very much, Alpha Hale, we really appreciate the dinner invite, having no furniture is a drag.

“Sorry about that,” Derek mutters, ushering him into the store.

“It’s okay. Though seriously, government employees here, you really don’t have to work that hard to impress us.” Stiles scoots his butt to the lacrosse section and starts taking down sticks from the rack. He rejects the first two immediately for shitty balance, then tucks the third one under his arm and turns around. “Shit!”

“Sorry.” Derek backs up. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Actually, it wasn’t him. It was the wannabe darach across the store, checking out the rock-climbing gear like it’s totally standard to be tying knots around your own wrist. But Stiles goes with it and runs his hand through his hair, letting his eyes stay wide. “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” Derek says again. He hunches a little under the leather and it should not look adorable but it does. “I just got curious. Never seen lacrosse gear up close before.”

“Let me guess, you were a soccer guy?” Stiles says. He brings the stick between them—Derek’s brows twitch, amused—and hefts it a few times. A little light for Stiles’ tastes, but he guesses he could always run a steel core down the center.

Derek snorts. “No, actually, I didn’t really do sports in high school. Broke too much equipment.”

“Oh, is _that_ where the discount came from?” Stiles says.

“No, the discount is courtesy of the rest of the family,” says the parking-lot guy. He’s coming down the aisle towards them. Weaves around a stack of basketballs, deftly spins one up onto a claw and then slips it back onto the pile, which is now behind him, without looking. “At least one state champion in every generation, the least they can do is help us out with our little…accidents.”

“Peter,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Do I want to know.”

Peter, who is casual in jeans and a tee, and who looks entirely too much like one of the pin-up posters scattered around the store, shakes his head theatrically and pulls a credit card from his pocket—probably the pack card. He hands it to Derek, who looks mildly embarrassed. “You left it on the counter,” Peter says. He turns to Stiles. “I’m so sorry to hear about your problems with the moving company. If I’d known, I would have offered to show you where the grocery was.”

“Well, thanks, but I found it anyway,” Stiles says. He’s keeping an eye on the wannabe darach, who has settled on some bright yellow rope and who is heading for checkout.

“I could show you an easier way to get there. You were nearly on the other side of town,” Peter says.

Derek frowns. “What?”

“Oh, I ran into him in front of The Fox and the Hound last night while making excuses for you,” Peter says.

Stiles grimaces. “Yeah, I got—really lost—and I’m…going to try this one…”

Derek is busy getting red-faced and hissing at Peter about not his idea, either of them, and Peter is looking like they do this a lot and he preens in it every time, and neither of them really notice Stiles edging off with a hastily-snatched jersey in his hand.

The changing room is not really near the checkout counter. Actually, it’s about as far as that damn bar was from the supermarket, but needs must. Stiles dumps the jersey and the stick as soon as he’s behind a tall enough display, then drops and speed-crawls his way between shelves till he’s at the front of the store. The wannabe is checked out and leaving, and for a moment Stiles thinks he might actually get out of dinner.

No such luck, even though it’s unprofessional to say so. The store is right next to a utility door, so Stiles steps up behind the wannabe, whacks the side of his hand into the back of the man’s neck, and drags him behind the door before anyone sees. Then he puts the man belly-down on the ground, puts a knee to his back and yanks his head till the spine breaks.

He gets up and pulls out his phone. “Dad?”

The utility door starts to open. Stiles slaps it shut. 

“Stiles?” Derek calls through the door. “Stiles, are you all right?”

Damn it, voicemail. Stiles pulls down his phone and dials Melissa. “Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because…you’re in there with a dead body?” Peter says. He sounds puzzled.

Stiles shuts off his phone, looks at the body, and then makes an executive decision and yanks open the door. “Get in,” he snaps.

Derek and Peter slide in. Derek is sniffing, Peter isn’t, but he gives the corpse a couple purposeful pokes with his foot, not like he’s seeing if it’s really dead but like he’s looking at certain spots.

“Are there any other werewolves nearby?” Stiles says, shutting the door. “Anybody you think would smell or hear it?”

“Ah, no…” Peter pauses, his eyes going distant. Then he shakes his head. He looks up at Stiles and he has this tiny, faint smile on his face, and he looks a _thousand_ times more interested than he did in the parking lot. As in, back there he had basically been interested in one, very specific, part of Stiles, and yeah, it’d been the kind of interest that sets walls on fire, but still, limited. And now? Now he looks like he wants to _talk_ to Stiles. “Are you all right?”

Nope. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles says. “So look, keywords here: government business, confidential, please stay out.”

“Then how are you going to get it out?” Derek asks. He’s stopped sniffing and is studying the dead guy like this is also something he does all the time. “There’s only one door. Or did you want to leave it here? I think that’d be a big deal, they’ll probably shut down the mall and that’ll make the news.”

“There are duffel bags in the store,” Peter says thoughtfully. He and Derek both cock their heads the same way when they’re measuring up bodies. It’s a little unnerving. “It’ll fit. Derek, go get—”

Derek’s head snaps up. He narrows his eyes at Peter, who looks long-suffering like he’s not got any ulterior motives, not at all, just helpful exasperation. “Wait, why—”

Stiles is so fucked. But goddamn it, he once got a body out of a crowded football stadium with a smile and strategically-placed balloons, and if he’s going to get fucked over on this, it’s _not_ going to be for some jackoff tree-abusing dead guy.

He steps over the body and shoves Derek up against the wall. Derek’s eyes widen and he grabs at Stiles, hands landing on hip and arm, respectively. No claws yet, well-trained, and hell, Stiles is getting distracted already. He jams his hand into Derek’s jeans pocket and Derek’s already round eyes bulge a little. Derek’s mouth drops open and his exhale puffs warmly on Stiles’ face and god _damn_ it.

Stiles pulls out the credit card and waves it at Peter. “Go buy a bag, come back, act like you’re looking around, then yank open the door and yell at us. Give me the bag while you’re doing that and then pull Derek out and keep yelling.”

For a moment Peter stares at them, unsmiling, eyes dangerously intense. Then he bares his teeth, still _not_ smiling, and steps out of the utility room.

“Okay,” Stiles mutters. He lets go of Derek.

Derek doesn’t let go of him. Instead, he settles his fingers on Stiles’ shoulder, and then tugs so that he can peer over that at the body. “Government business? I thought your dad worked for the Forest Service.”

“That’s a _federal agency_ , and anyway, what part of ‘confidential’ do you not understand?” Stiles says, exasperated. He feels something tickle his temple and raises his hand, only to wipe off a bead of sweat. Standing next to Derek feels like standing in front of a furnace, if a furnace smelled like leather and grass and a little bit of musk, just enough to make Stiles want to lean in and sniff like a were. “Also, I thought you were supposed to be a nice pack.”

Derek pulls back so he can look Stiles in the eye. Well, he sort of pulls back, in that there’s space between their heads, but his nose-tip dusts across Stiles’ cheek as he moves, and his fingers are inching up Stiles’ shoulder and when Stiles puts both hands up and pushes him into the wall, Derek goes with it like it was his idea. “We are a nice pack.”

“You’re helping me hide a body,” Stiles says.

“That’s being nice,” Derek says, his brows rising. “We’re werewolves. It comes up.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Then he fists his hands in Derek’s shirt and drags him into a kiss.

It’s hot. It’s hot like, Stiles is kneeing between Derek’s legs before his tongue’s even all the way into Derek’s mouth, and Derek is making this really, really tasty rumbling noise deep in his throat, one hand plastered to Stiles’ hip. It’s hot like they’re crawling over each other to get closer, like Stiles has semi-forgotten why it’s totally not a good idea to be curling his hand over the back of Derek’s neck, _werewolf_ , oh, _fuck_ , Derek arches up the wall into it and Stiles flattens himself against the other man, pushes his cock into the cradle of Derek’s hips and it’s so fucking frustrating but it’s so _good_.

So Peter appears right then, and does exactly what he’s supposed to. He and Derek argue loudly about public indecency charges while Stiles, winded, bends over and grabs his knees and stares at this stupid body and the stupid duffel bag. Fuck.

* * *

“You told them what?” Stiles’ dad sighs. Then he shakes his head. He closes his eyes like he’s got a migraine coming on. “Never mind. I guess we have to roll with it.”

“It’s not like it’s that far off the cover,” Stiles protests. Lamely. He’s right, but also, his dad’s resigned expression is totally right.

They’re sitting in the new, privacy-warded rental car outside of the Hale house. It’s a nice house. Mansion, really. It’s huge and imposing, but also, very lived-in: one bedroom window has those jelly stickers, forming an arc of daisies, and the porch furniture has patched-up, faded cushions, and a rope swing hanging from a nearby tree. A garden is peeking around one side and Peter’s standing in it, pretending to pick peppers and staring at the car when Stiles’ dad isn’t looking.

Peter had ridden back with him and Derek. It’d been…awkward isn’t the word for it. Awkward doesn’t adequately convey the absolute terribleness of fighting down a stiffy while in the car with two werewolves silently pissing over each other, Stiles, and Stiles’ stupid lacrosse gear. Which Peter had remembered to buy, along with the bag.

“I’m really sorry,” Stiles says.

“It’s okay.” His dad pats him on the shoulder, then turns and gives him one of those crooked half-smiles, the kind he got a lot of when he was first getting a handle on things. “It’s not great, but I’d rather deal with a territorial alpha any day over seeing you disappointed again.”

“Dad,” Stiles says. He has to look down for a second.

“We’ll figure it out,” his dad says. Then he frowns. “But Stiles, I meant it about not dating them. This is complicated enough, and Lord knows I’m not ready to give that talk to you, let alone Alpha Hale.”

“Oh, my God, _Dad_ , that was just cover!” Stiles yelps. He rolls his eyes and gets out of the car. “Come on, I’m starving. Let’s go talk to Alpha Hale about the body and get that over with, so we can have dinner.”

* * *

Talia Hale is surprisingly mellow. “Oh, sure, of course you can use the crematory,” she says.

“Crematory?” Stiles’ dad says, clutching his iced tea.

“Well, you eventually run out of discreet burial spots, and anyway, even fifty years later, you sometimes turn up bones,” Talia says. She offers him the plate of fried potato fritters, which he gladly takes, despite Stiles’ best side-eye. “If we didn’t get rid of them somehow, we’d be swimming in deer skeletons.”

“We clean the roadkill off the roads when we can, since the rangers can take a while to get out here,” Laura Hale says, taking a break from whatever torture she and her sister are doing to Derek under the table. “And we all have hunting permits. It adds up.”

Talia smiles pleasantly at her children and they all straighten up and look embarrassed. “More zucchini, Stiles? Anyway, anything we can do to help. Poachers are a menace to the whole ecosystem, not just apex predators.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m good,” Stiles says. The food continues to be fantastic, and he has to admit, he’s been fighting off the urge to sneak some of that venison the whole meal. He’s half-sure Peter keeps cutting off the bloodiest bits and letting the juices drip forever before taking a bite on purpose. “Well, thanks, we really appreciate it. Dad hasn’t even gotten his transfer paperwork done yet and it’d take forever before we got approval to use a morgue that’s not on the list. We’d probably have to keep the body in the basement or something.”

Stiles’ dad shoots Stiles a warning look, and okay, maybe that had been pushing it. But Talia just laughs and shakes her head. “I understand perfectly. It’s always so irritating when your freezer overflows. Peter, can you hand me the pitcher?”

What Peter actually does is stand up and refill his sister’s glass. He stays up a couple seconds longer to see if anyone else wants more, then sits and sets down the pitcher. “Swimming in deer,” he says, smiling just like Talia. “Summer season drivers are terrible.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Stiles’ dad says dryly.

Stiles wonders if maybe he should have taken more zucchini. He’s got nothing left on his plate to distract himself with.

“So, Stiles,” Talia says, and everybody at the table turns to look at him. “I’m impressed that you’re already following your father’s footsteps, and not even out of high school. Most boys your age have no idea what they want to do.”

“Well, when my mom died—” his dad tenses and Stiles feels guilty, because yeah, he doesn’t like pulling this card either “—Dad had to take me into work a lot, because it was hard to get a steady babysitter. I guess I just grew up into it.”

“He’s still going to finish school and go to college,” his dad says. “I’m proud of him, but we don’t have children to do our work for us.”

Talia nods. Her expression changes just a little, just a shade from friendly matriarch to something more steely. “I absolutely agree. It’s a shame my husband’s flight was delayed, since I think we’ve got quite a bit in common. You must come back when he’s in town.”

Well, they walked into that one. “Sure,” Stiles’ dad says, looking pained. “I’d like to speak to you and him anyway. I was looking over the way we divided up patrols on the borders of your land, and—”

“Oh, you can speak to me about that,” Peter says. “Talia and Francis have to travel so much on pack business, I’m usually the one who handles local matters. I’d be happy to come by whenever is convenient.”

Derek makes a weird little noise, something like a snarl crossed with a hiccup. His sisters look genuinely confused, while his mother looks from Derek to Peter, and then suddenly grins. It’s a wide, toothy, unrestrained smile, and even Peter looks a bit nervous about it.

“Stiles,” Talia says. “What level of runes did you say you were at?”

“Er, actually, I’m sorry, but I think we’d better see the crematory now,” Stiles’ dad suddenly says. He and Talia eye each other for a moment, and Stiles has no _idea_ what is going on, but he has to say, he’s really proud of his dad. Talia has one hell of a stare, cool and strong, and his dad might look a little tired and ragged around the edges but he doesn’t even twitch. “School night. I don’t want to keep Stiles up too late.”

“Oh, yeah! Homework,” Stiles chimes in. “So much homework. And I want to start off right, be a good kid, yeah. Sorry.”

* * *

“Okay, so what the hell was that?” Stiles says, dumping the jar of ashes out onto the table.

His dad ignores him, but he’s gotten to the tricky bit of the scrying circle, that and the chalk from the drugstore is shitty quality and keeps snapping on him, so Stiles understands. Stiles sticks the jar back in the evidence bag—stupid standard protocols—and sits down with his laptop to at least try and start an incident report.

“I’ll do the report. You should do your homework,” his dad mutters.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s only the second day. I’ll do it during free period tomorrow.”

“Do your homework,” his dad says, and straightens up. He eyeballs the circle (a little lopsided, but as long as it’s unbroken it could be a dodecahedron), then pulls out his phone. “I’m going to call Deaton.”

“Why?” Stiles says. 

His dad looks at him, like he thinks Stiles is pestering the hell out of him, and Stiles looks back, like _damn straight_ that is a promise if his dad doesn’t give up the goods right here and now. Then his dad sighs. “You read Deaton’s file, didn’t you? You know what role he played with the Hale pack?”

“Backwards and upside-down,” Stiles says, and then _shit_ , he gets it. “Oh, what the _hell_.”

“I knew we should’ve gone with the story about you being an amateur taxidermist. Lot easier to explain than this magic bullshit.” His dad glares at his phone. He’s not really talented at that kind of stuff, leaves it to Stiles to power up, but he makes up for that by being able to set up kills in ways Stiles even can’t figure completely out yet. Stiles wouldn’t put it past his dad to have a remote trigger on there. “I’m going to call Deaton, and find out whether he put the idea to recruit you in Alpha Hale’s head or whether she thought it up all on her own. And then either I’m going to kick his ass, because you are _eighteen_ , or—”

“Also, not equipped for that shit,” Stiles mutters, because yeah, he and his dad are fully aligned on this one. He would actually like to stop moving around so much but that’s about it. He’s already got a couple other commitment situations in his life and totally does not need to be hammered into Dr. Deaton’s empty slot like a kiddie toy.

“—or I’m going to put in a priority request for research on werewolf courting negotiations,” his father finishes, looking like the words are physically souring in his mouth.

Stiles fidgets with his laptop’s touchpad, watching the cursor zig aimlessly around. “Um, Dad, I know you’re worried, but I think we’ve been through enough that I know the difference between looking for fun and looking for a ring, whatever the species.”

“Oh, no, not…” His dad looks even more sour. Then he gives himself a shake. “No, Stiles. I meant, I think it’d be a good idea to open up talks with Alpha Hale, and before you freak out, it’s not to give you away.”

“Okay.” Not that Stiles thinks his dad would pull that shit on him, but it’s…well, fuck, werewolf courting. He needs a second. “Okay. So if they’re not serious, they will freak the fuck out and stay far, far away. And-slash-or, if she’s really serious about it, and there were some _bizarre_ family vibes going on over the veggies, we’ll drag shit out and ask for unreasonable things and they’ll all be too distracted to see what else we’re doing. Actually, that’s pretty good, Dad. I like it.”

“Thanks, kid,” his dad says, and smiles tiredly at him. “Just—”

“Yeah, yeah, no dates.” Stiles opens up a new document and starts typing. The incident _report_ , because hell if his dad is going to remember all the subtleties. Man’s more of an action type, not a wordsmith, but that’s why he has Stiles.

* * *

First thing in the morning, his dad sends to Alpha Hale for a formal meeting, and they set a date for a week from now, when her husband’s back in town. He tells Stiles that reworking the patrols is on the backburner in light of the _very serious_ nature of this meeting, so Peter shouldn’t be stopping by any time soon.

In the meantime, central intel alerts them that some dumbass on the Darknet has spread the word about Beacon Hills. What’s more, the disappearance of one darach and another wannabe has been wrongly interpreted as the local Nemeton being extra-powerful and a big challenge to tame, instead of as a do-not-call, do-not-look, do-not-touch sign. Cue more wannabes heading in.

“All the other teams in the area are working to intercept before they get here, but some are going to get through,” Melissa sighs. She smiles gratefully when Scott hands her the bagged dinner, then turns a concerned look on Stiles. “Your dad and I both asked whether we can get back-up, but even if it’s granted, it’ll be a few weeks. So I’m sorry, guys, looks like you’ll be buddying up a lot in the evenings.”

“It’s okay, Mom. Stiles and I can take care of ourselves,” Scott says.

Stiles likes Melissa, and between her nurse cover and her real job, she’s got more than enough on her plate. So he waits till they’re out of the hospital and in Scott’s car before he rolls his eyes. “Sure. Sure we can, if my name was Allison.”

Scott winces and then uses his werewolf reflexes to save them from backing into an oncoming SUV. “Hey, we’re hanging out tonight, aren’t we? She’s having a rough time, Stiles, her dad’s finally decided to start dating again and she wants him to be happy but, well, you know.”

“Low blow, dude,” Stiles says, but it’s half-hearted. His dad technically was ready to get back out there years ago, and Stiles has been in full support for just as long. Stiles really just doesn’t want to be compared to the Argents, thank you. Chris seems okay, if grumpy, but Stiles’ mom had been downright gleeful when a squad finally caught up with Kate and Gerard, and she was probably the kindest, most compassionate Level Twelve the Service has ever had.

“Yeah. Yeah, that was. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I’ve been out of it. Hey, look, I have to be there for her, but I promise that tonight I’m gonna shut my mouth,” Scott says. He gives Stiles a tentative smile that cuts Stiles’ grudge off at the knees. It’s really irritating how Scott can do that, and if they weren’t besties, Stiles would have probably done something horrible to Scott years ago for it. “Not another word about her.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. He slumps back in his seat. Then he frowns. “Scott? Is that Derek’s car?”

Scott glances in the rearview mirror. “Shit, yes. Hang on, I’ll—”

“We’re in a school zone,” Stiles snaps, looking at the elementary school they’re just passing. “No, just…drive to lacrosse practice like normal. We’ll lose him after.”

* * *

If Derek is lurking around the field, he’s at least being discreet about it. Stiles doesn’t pick him out the whole time. Of course, Stiles is a little preoccupied with trying very hard to _not_ be good enough to smash all of these assholes into the ground. That’d stand out too much. Scott already has the werewolf super-athlete thing sewn up, complete with intra-team rivalry; no point in Stiles stepping on his toes.

But it’s hard. “Wow, you were not kidding about Jackson,” Stiles mutters as they dress afterward. “Tell me you whip his ass on full moon nights?”

Scott looks mournful. “His family goes off to some fancy country club for those.”

“Preppie.” Stiles slings his bookbag onto his back, then frowns when his phone goes off.

It’s his dad, letting him know that a couple darach groupies have been spotted in town and seem to be making contacts with the supernatural underworld. His dad and Melissa are busy handling a coroner’s inquiry about a hiker that’d turned up dead in the preserve and neither of them can get out of it in time. Also, his dad thinks that Stiles should go home and get some sleep, but just adds that Stiles had better not stick him with another body tonight. They know each other too well.

Scott is less than thrilled with the change in plans, arguing that it’s just groupies, it’s not the darach yet, so can’t it wait? Personally, Stiles thinks Scott just doesn’t want to head to the clubbing district in case it gets back to Allison and, high school gossip being what it is, Scott is falsely accused of cheating on her.

But, true to his word, Scott doesn’t come out and say that. It’s obviously killing him, but he doesn’t, so Stiles goes easy on him and lets him take Jungle. Stiles heads down the street and just around the corner, and heads into the kink club. 

Even though Stiles is already known to the owner (supernatural kink is a small world and his father and he spent three very memorable months taking down a mandrake smuggling ring in San Fran’s Castro District), they make him fill out all the paperwork anyway. He’s chewing on his pen and wondering whether to own up to his knife skills when Peter walks into the entryway.

Peter totally knew Stiles was there. Peter is looking at Stiles with this delighted little smile on his face, like he’s been looking forward to this all day and maybe even knows Stiles is kicking himself for getting stuck on Derek and forgetting about him. Peter is wearing the hell out of a sleek black suit, dark blue shirt outfit, and when the entrance attendant asks for his ID number, he nods to Stiles. “With him,” Peter says.

Stiles blinks twice. Thinks about calling his dad, and then trashes that when he sees Peter’s smile get just a little smugger. This is—probably not the greatest idea Stiles has ever had. His dad’s idea about the courting negotiations? That is a great idea. This is Stiles getting really fucking irritated, and when Stiles gets irritated, he thinks of very bad things.

“There’s a dress code,” Stiles says, as icily as he can manage. He taps his pen once, then scrawls his signature at the bottom of the papers and hands them over.

The attendant looks faintly sympathetic. “We have loaners, if you’d like,” she says. “The owner said he really wanted you to have a good first experience.”

She looks eager, and beams when Stiles gives her an indifferent shrug. The attendant pops under her counter, rummages around a bit, and then comes up with a black leather collar and leash. Silver buckle, minimalist, all about the quality of the material. Stiles makes a mental note to mention to his dad that Gabriel is sucking up like he lives on it, and maybe they should see why the guy thinks he needs to. Then he picks up the collar. He coils the leash loosely around his hand, and then turns and holds the collar out to Peter.

Peter is very good, Stiles will give him that. His composure doesn’t seem to change, but Stiles catches the barest flicker of glow in his eyes. Then he reaches out, no hesitation. He takes the collar with one hand, and with the other, he unbuttons his shirt the first few inches, pushing the wings of its collar apart with his index finger. Then he wraps the leather around his neck, dipping his head a little. He doesn’t take his eyes off Stiles the whole time.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, smoothly faltering. His hands drop to his sides.

So fucking bad. Stiles lifts his hand and pulls on the leash, and Peter tamely comes along, keeping just a half-step behind Stiles.

It’s crowded inside, and more than one person gets hung up on the look of them, flannel-shirted kid with yeah, _him_ behind, which means Stiles has to stop and stare till they fuck off (because pushing or cursing is such amateur shit, _Jackson_ ). Which means it’s a good five minutes before they make it to their nice, roomy corner booth, and Stiles is too busy to look at Peter. He collects himself a little, wills down his fucking erection, and even manages to remember to signal the waiter so Gabriel will be told there are outsiders.

Of course, then Peter slides into the booth next to Stiles. He’s actually heading for the floor at first, but Stiles jerks at the leash in, okay, a little fit of panic. Peter pauses, considers the situation, and then shifts to his hands and knees and fucking _crawls_ across the seat to kneel right beside Stiles. 

“You don’t look very pleased to see me,” Peter says, still in that soft, hesitant voice, which absolutely doesn’t match the light in his eyes. “I did apologize, but perhaps you’d like something more concrete?”

“Perhaps I’d like to ask your sister who the hell taught you manners,” Stiles says under his breath. He wraps another round of leash around his hand, then pulls down hard, so that Peter’s head just misses the edge of the table.

Peter catches himself with a hand on Stiles’ knee, hissing. He’s showing a little fang. Stiles grabs his hair and begins pulling at it, not hard enough to take out any strands. It’ll look like petting but feel a lot rougher, and when Peter tries to turn and look up, Stiles adds his nails.

It’s also an awkward position for Peter, almost doubled over. He resists for a second, then abruptly slides his knees out from under him, twisting over onto his side. The back of his head pushes into Stiles’ chest, not quite a slam, and then slides down till it’s nudging Stiles’ belly. Stiles moves his hand to the back of Peter’s neck, above the collar, and squeezes, gouging his nails in right behind Peter’s ears.

Peter rocks his head on Stiles’ thigh, his chin going up and back. He looks up, his mouth open with the corners up, his eyes mostly pupil, and moans. His hand closes around the edge of the table, squeezes. Begins rubbing back and forth, back and forth.

Stiles can see where this is going. He loosens his grip and Peter flicks his tongue at Stiles, just skating white, sharp teeth, and then relaxes back onto Stiles’ lap. “Yes, I did hear about your father’s request,” he says. He’s dropped the quaver from his voice, but it’s still soft, still nuzzling up like he’s licking Stiles’ ear instead of his own lips. “Curious. It shouldn’t be that difficult to cover up a poacher’s death.”

He’s suspicious. Stiles and his dad had talked about that, but Stiles had written it off a bit, which in retrospect was a stupid move. Peter might be jonesing for a piece of Stiles, but the Hales are highly respected for a _nice_ pack and Melissa’s warned them Peter is a big part of that.

“It’s not. You know, so long as we’re not blabbing about it in a public place, or anything like that.” Stiles wishes he could get a drink, but that would be stretching his dad’s patience a bit too much. Instead he leans back and kicks up his foot against the table stand, which raises his leg and pushes Peter’s head against his stomach. “Your family seriously weirded out my dad, I hope you know. I’m not sure what kind of impression you were trying to make, but he was a little iffy on taking this transfer in the first place.”

Oh, good move. Peter’s disturbed enough to twitch under Stiles’ hand. He stills when Stiles begins massaging finger and thumb behind his ears, pushing them deep into the hollows. Then he drops his shoulders, stretches his throat. “I am sorry about that,” he says, his eyes half-closing. “Talia gets enthusiastic when she sees someone she admires.”

“Runs in the family?” Stiles says. He props his elbow against the table and leans his head against his other hand. The leash goes taut, even lifts Peter’s head a little, though he’s trying to keep contact with Stiles’ leg. “Also, me, personally, I don’t like being in the middle of somebody else’s bitchfight. I don’t know what you’re doing with Derek, but I’m not playing.”

Peter opens his eyes again. Weirdly enough, he looks surprised. “Stiles, I—”

“Stiles!” Gabriel strides through the crowd. He’s a tall guy, well over six feet, with pale skin and ice-blond hair. Classic Huldrekall. “I’m so pleased to hear that you’re finally settling down. And Peter, hello, I’m honored you’ve decided to visit my establishment. My best to Talia.”

Peter nods, but properly stays down as Stiles gets up, shakes Gabriel’s hand, suffers through some bullshit about fluctuations in fairy dust and mead prices. He sets his head back on Stiles’ thigh soon as Stiles sits; Stiles resumes rubbing Peter’s neck and Peter goes limp, even his hands hanging loosely over the bench. He’s like an oversized cat, right down to occasionally stretching out, yawning fangily, and then settling back to nuzzle at Stiles’ knee.

Gabriel is talky. Very talky. Even with the code-word system, which requires two to four fake sentences to every real one. Stiles is a rambler himself but God, he never wants to talk this much about fucking supply chain problems ever again. By the time Gabriel gets up from their table, Stiles is more than ready to pack it in, and fuck the darach groupies. Maybe they’ve been eavesdropping and have been bored to death. He can hope.

He can kind of forget he’s got a grown werewolf cuddling his thigh. Peter rolls over and onto his forearms, blinking sleepily, then leans in and mouths at Stiles’ flannel over-shirt. It’s too thick for Stiles to really feel it, but that’s not the point. The point is, Peter’s lips are also right by Stiles’ nipple, which is suddenly tight and hard like a little rock under the flimsy tee that’s all Stiles has under the flannel, and Peter doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop where he is.

Stiles bites down a curse and pulls Peter up by the leash, which is stupid because then Peter’s mouth and his mouth are level. “Back room?” Peter says.

“You wish,” Stiles says, and grabs Peter’s hand away from his waist.

“But I _do_ wish, Stiles,” Peter croons, and puts his other hand on Stiles’ hip.

Stiles is tempted. Jesus, okay, he’s eighteen, and killing the shit out of things across twenty-seven states doesn’t change that. He’s tempted. But also, he’s played chicken before, and it’s not his game.

“Get on the table,” he says. He raises an eyebrow when Peter doesn’t. “Or I’m walking.”

Peter presses his lips together. He’s suddenly tense, his head not quite cocked like he’s just remembering all the people in the club with them. Most of whom he probably knows. It’s one thing to fuck around playing pussycat in front of the club owner; it’s another to put on a show for any jackass who happens to walk by.

Stiles pushes down on his feet like he’s going to stand and Peter gets on the table.

He sits on the edge, facing Stiles, which won’t do. Stiles pushes his shoulder till Peter gets the message and lies down on his back, his legs still braced against the bench. So Stiles picks up Peter’s feet, one at a time, and puts them on the table, spread wide. Peter has to scoot so his head is almost off the edge to make room. His hands go out to grip either side, and after a moment’s studying, Stiles lets them be.

Give the man credit, when he looks at the room, it’s a good, long look, not betraying a hint of embarrassment. Then Peter tilts his head forward. It’s not an easy angle for him to hold but he keeps it there, staring hard at Stiles. And _hot_ —he’s angry, yeah, but he’s into it too, and angry about it and just working himself up even hotter. 

Stiles waves, and a waiter immediately appears with a big pitcher of ice water. It’s one of those handle-less pitchers, looking a bit like a vase, but the neck fits nicely in Stiles’ hand. He swirls it around for a couple seconds, absorbing the body splayed out in front of him. That suit stretches where it should, hugs where it should. He can even see a little chest and ab definition through the thin silk shirt, and the trousers outline Peter’s erection without the seams going wiggly. Really great tailoring. 

Peter sucks in his breath right as Stiles upends the pitcher over his groin. The water splashes violently off him to the table, then wicks up into the ass of those trousers. It makes great big splotches in the shirt, then starts pooling on Peter’s shivering belly when the silk can’t soak it up fast enough.

After the first splatter, Stiles moderates the flow so it’s steady but not a torrent, moving it a little up and down the inseam of Peter’s crotch. Peter is scratching shavings off the table with his claws, his hips jerking whenever an ice cube plinks onto the table, but he mostly stays put. He bites his lip, then again, and then chews it so blood starts trickling down his chin. When the last drops shake out of the pitcher, he puts his head back with a vicious thump. A long shudder takes him from head to toe, bringing his belly up and pushing his hips and shoulders down, and then he slumps back, panting. The collar strains over the gorge of his throat.

His erection’s gone, frozen out. His hair is a sweaty, snarled mess from rubbing against Stiles’ lap and the table, and his expensive suit sticks and twists up around him when Stiles tugs the leash, makes him get off the table. He doesn’t stumble but he uses the top of the bench for balance.

“Out,” Stiles says.

Peter walks with him towards the door, a full step behind. When they stop at the attendant’s counter, Peter blinks, looking a little dazed. He blinks again, and then breathes in slowly but sharply when Stiles takes the collar off him. His hand comes up.

It clamps convulsively onto Stiles’ shoulder when Stiles pins Peter against the wall, fucks his mouth like Derek’s back at the mall. Peter makes a gutshot noise into Stiles’ mouth, gravelly and choked. He drags on Stiles’ shoulder. He kisses like a fever dream, all crashing heat and sweet drowning undertow. When Stiles wrenches their mouths apart, his head drops and tilts like he means to nose under Stiles’ chin.

Stiles steps back first. Tosses the leash and collar to the breathless, grinning attendant, and then heads for the door. “You and Derek are even now,” he says.

“We’re not,” Peter says, still breathless. He stumbles up after Stiles. “It’s not—we’re not _fighting_.”

“Maybe tell him that?” Stiles says. Then he ducks past an incoming couple and makes for the parking lot.

He texts Scott, who must’ve been cruising around waiting, because Scott’s there in two seconds. Stiles gets in, makes Scott pull into the first fucking gas station they see, and then goes into the bathroom and jerks off using cheap-ass hand lotion.

Stiles gets back in the car. Scott’s nostrils flare.

“Shut up and drive,” Stiles says.

Scott drives. He gets most of the way to Stiles’ house before awkwardly clearing his throat. “I guess…he’s got a lot of magic books,” Scott offers weakly. “I know you like those.”

Stiles puts his hand over his face. “My dad’s going to rip me a new one.”

* * *

Stiles’ father keeps his hand over his face. “Just because you technically obeyed the rules, Stiles, doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

Central intel is faster about getting back to them on werewolf sexuality than they are with armed reinforcements. Good to know, Stiles thinks, and makes himself keep reading the briefing. “Look, it’s not _dating_. He showed up and I had to keep him busy, and double plus, I managed to strengthen our negotiating position in the process. Believe me, I’m not going to be the pursuer here. And did Alpha Hale even complain?”

“No, she didn’t. Actually, she apologized for the inappropriate attempt to compromise you, and complimented you on your thoughtfulness.” Stiles’ dad takes his hand off his face and looks at Stiles like maybe they can break out the whiskey for one glass. “Keep in mind she said all of that while looking like she’d just eaten a whole deer herself, and finished up by offering to let Peter consult for our tracker program to make up for it. I had to tell her that we’d closed recruitment for the year already.”

Stiles looks up from the briefing. “If Annalise finds out, she’s going to have your head.”

“Yes, Stiles, I realize,” his father mutters. He rubs the side of his face, then sits up and pulls the other half of the briefing towards him. He flips through a few pages, then picks out a section and pushes it at Stiles. “Look, I know you’re doing the best you can. But just remember why we’re here, okay? I don’t want you to get rushed into something you don’t actually want, just because you’ve got too many balls in the air. We came here for you, not the Hales.”

“I know, Dad.” Then Stiles puts down the paper and really looks at his father. They’ve been here over a week, their fucking furniture is still not here, and they look as ragged as when they’d showed up. Talk about balls in the air, his dad’s been handling a whole armada with just Stiles, Scott and Melissa to back him up. “I know. Really. And I’m not…I’m not rushing into this. I’m really not. Honestly, I think they’re actually making it easier for me to chill out about it. No time to freak out when you’re getting stalked all over by pervy werewolves.”

Stiles’ dad looks at him.

“Um, also, Gabriel let me know that the latest baby darach is coming in two days, and drives a white Range Rover?” Stiles offers. “This one’s all yours. I’ll cover the preserve.”

“Thanks, son,” his dad snorts. He glances at the clock on the wall (they’ve given up and started buying stuff while their actual stuff is in moving limbo), then shakes his head and gets up. “Well, I’m off to bed. I swear, someday I’m going to make it to a school thing of yours.”

“You know it’s just cover,” Stiles says, shrugging. Then a yawn catches up on him, and he admits he probably should turn in, too. He shuffles the briefing back into its envelope and begins to gather all the other papers together.

“You need to read that,” his dad says, walking out of the room. “But keep your grades up!”

“I know!” Stiles yells back. He sticks the briefing envelope under his laptop so he’ll remember.

* * *

Stiles is keeping six eyes out. His two and then Scott’s and Allison’s, since if those two are going to insist on secret nighttime meet-ups in the preserve, they might as well help Stiles patrol.

Okay. Maybe Stiles is being a little optimistic on that one. But at the very least, Allison’s kind of loud, so the sound of her and Scott should keep everybody out of that corner of the woods. Which leaves a good big patch of it all to Stiles. Normally he’d bitch about it, but given his life lately, he thinks he could use some alone time to stomp around and rant to himself.

“Keyword, alone,” Stiles says as Derek materializes out of a bush. “The stalking thing really isn’t as cute as you seem to think it is.”

Derek just walks right up to Stiles and grabs his arm and hauls him fifteen feet over to a large tree. He’s incredibly lucky that Stiles hears the other people coming towards them, because otherwise Stiles would’ve shivved him. “Shut up,” he says. “Hunters.”

Stiles hits Derek on the shoulder, right on a critical nerve. When Derek’s fingers flop off his arm, Stiles gets out his phone and starts to call his dad.

“They’re rogues,” Derek hisses. He’s still shaking his hand like the feeling isn’t back, but he crowds Stiles right up to the tree, and given how the guy’s built, one arm and his hips probably would be enough to pin Stiles. “Just—”

“Who’s got the official license for this, me or you?” Stiles hisses back. Though he does put his phone away. The hunters are close enough to see now, and they’re not just rogues. They’re rogues who match profiles for the latest darach candidate’s entourage, and those profiles had been marked all over with joy-killer warnings.

His dad, unfortunately, is with Chris at a shooting range way across town, because for some reason standard protocol is to retest practicals before bothering with the psych eval. It’d take them a good half-hour to get over, and by then the hunters are going to be long gone. Scott would be closer, but Scott’s not exactly rated for field combat. Not that he can’t _do_ it, but it’d be a good extra foot in paperwork to explain.

Also, well, Stiles hasn’t interacted much with Allison. He doesn’t know how she’d react, and God knows Scott can’t manage to ditch her even when Stiles is feeding him the lines.

Stiles takes stock. He’s got three knives, a garrote, a couple poisons, one can of vaporized wolfsbane, another one of mace, and lubricant (shut up, it’s handy for getting lots of other shit unstuck and people never want an explanation when they see it). What he does not have, unfortunately, is a fucking gun, because stupid fucking probation for stupid fucking chupacabras in San Antonio. Nobody even died, and _nobody_ seems to understand how unusual that is for him.

The hunters both have rifles. They’re about a hundred yards away at the top of the hill, frowning over a map. One of them gestures in frustration to the other and jabs his finger at his phone, while the other shakes the map and his head.

“We need to get them to come down before we jump them,” Stiles mutters under his breath. “Shut up, I can hear you staring. I know you’re a werewolf, blah blah awesome standing jump skills, but it’s a steep fucking hill. And they might look like doofuses, but that’s Russian army surplus and nobody carries that shit unless they know how to use it.”

Derek is absolutely dying to bite into that, Stiles can tell from the little tooth points poking from under his lips. But he just sets his shoulders, looks like he thinks this is going to end in tears and grim funeral casserole, and arches his brows at Stiles. “Fine. What are we doing?”

One hunter has something weird dangling from his belt. It’s vaguely triangular, smooth on one side and fuzzy on the other, and oh, ew, it’s an ear. Of something.

Stiles looks at Derek. “Take off your shirt and lie down on the ground and look like I’ve beaten the shit out of you.”

Derek blinks hard. Cocks his head. “Just what did Peter—”

“I will fucking _wolfsbane_ you,” Stiles hisses. “Ground, _now_.”

And…Derek pulls off his shirt and gets down on his belly. He’s holding himself up on his elbows and has his shirt under his head like he’s going to use it as a pillow, and for fuck’s sake. Stiles drops to his knees, yanks away the shirt and then wallops Derek hard across the right side of his face. Derek snarls, falling back, and Stiles slides his knee over Derek’s neck just as the hunters look up.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles says, loudly enough to carry. “Fucking bullshit wolfsbane, my ass. If that goddamn shit cut it, I’m going to—”

“Hey! Hey, kid!” The hunters are coming down the slope. They both have their hands on their rifles, ready to swing up—and being uphill means they don’t have far to go, but for the moment the guns aren’t quite in firing position. “You all right?”

Stiles gets a fistful of Derek’s hair. He pulls out one of his knives and sets it against Derek’s throat, and then looks up. “Huh? Oh. Oh, hey, is that Soviet?”

The hunter who’d called out before grins. “Hell, yeah. Looks like shit but keeps on ticking. So…you got something there?”

“Were,” Stiles huffs, trying to sound like he’s been wrestling Derek all night. He tugs at Derek’s hair and Derek lets out another growl, which he’s actually clever enough to make sound sort of slurred. “Shit, I’ve been chasing him all night. I think my supplier fucked me on my bullets.”

The hunters look sympathetic. They come a couple yards closer, and the one with the map sticking out of his pocket takes one hand off his gun, reaches for a clip at his belt. “Sorry to hear that,” he says. “You need one?”

“No. No, I think he’s down now.” Stiles glances at Derek, and then notices the tattoo scrawling over Derek’s back. It’s a triskelion, thick and black on skin that has kind of a silver sheen in the low light, really smooth and sleek and then there are the muscles under it.

Ugh, fuck. Stiles shakes his head and gauges how far the hunters are now. Then he sits up a little, putting more weight on his knee on Derek’s neck. Derek makes a raspy, thick noise, his claws digging chunks out of the ground. Maybe he’s not acting. Damn it.

He makes another noise, lower and thicker and slower, when Stiles touches the knife point to the tattoo, and for a second Stiles thinks their cover is blown. But nope, the hunters are too tied up in their own excitement to bother noticing. “This is a new one,” Stiles says. He traces the curve of one spiral with the knife, nicking the skin for a couple drops of blood, and the covetous light in the hunters’ eyes gets even brighter. “You ever see this before?”

“Nope,” says one hunter. “Shit, that’d look nice stretched on the wall.”

“You need a hand?” says the other one, the one with the ear on his belt. “I’m pretty good with a knife mah _guh_.”

That’s Stiles’ knife going through his throat. Derek nearly flips the other one over, leaping onto him, and then rolls off onto his feet as the hunter spasms and gurgles, torn throat spilling blood all over the fallen rifles. He crouches back, looking at Stiles over the bodies. He puts his hand back over his shoulder, then brings it around and examines the blood. Then he puts one finger to his mouth and sucks it off.

“It’s going to be three or four by the time these are ashed,” he says. He puts another finger up and licks it, nice and slow. “You should stay over for the night. Peter’s just using the guest bedroom for an office anyway, we can kick him out.”

“Smooth,” Stiles says. “Well, thanks, but no thanks. If I ever want to star in a romcom, I’ll dye my hair blond and get a kooky but well-meaning roommate.”

Derek stops licking his fingers and frowns. He looks confused and also, possibly, a little upset. “Wait. Wait, whatever Peter—”

“Oh, my God, fuck your uncle, and fuck _you_ ,” Stiles snaps. He stomps over and gets his knife. “I’m fucking eighteen and already I’m too old for this fucking trophy— _Scott_ , buddy, where the hell have you been?”

Scott skids to a stop, staring at the bodies. “Um, Allison—”

Stiles jerks out his phone and his earbuds. He puts on something offensively bouncy, and starts tidying up while not listening to the other two. If he hurries, maybe he can squeeze in another patrol, on the other side of town, and maybe, just maybe, the stupid darach wannabe will be there, and Stiles can have a conversation he actually cares to tune in for.

* * *

“Dad, I hate the Hales,” Stiles says, and then yawns.

His father opens his mouth, then shuts it. Then he reaches over and pushes the coffee-maker away from Stiles, and when Stiles tries to protest, gives him a gentle shove towards the stairs.

“I think you need to go to bed, Stiles,” his dad says. “Whatever it is, we can deal with it in the morning. Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“But I mean it,” Stiles mutters. Though fine, tripping three times up the stairs probably signifies a severe lack of sleep. Stupid fucking werewolves.

* * *

It’s actually Melissa who ends up getting the third baby darach, because she and Scott happen to be at the home improvement store when they and their groupies are loading up with supplies. But they’ve barely gotten rid of the body when they get wind of a fourth heading their way.

Stiles and Scott get benched by their parents. Melissa cites Scott’s failing grades in three classes (despite Stiles overhauling Scott’s homework) and Stiles’ dad brings up the straight week of detentions Stiles earned by falling asleep in chemistry, thanks to over-doing the night patrols. Also, bribes him with the prospect of a budget for his own car. Which is kind of a big deal.

“Well, if we didn’t have to take my car all the time, it’d save me a lot of explanations with Mr. Argent,” Scott mutters. He reverts to ‘Mr. Argent’ whenever Allison is blowing him off for father-daughter bonding. “For somebody who claims he’s retired, he’s in an awful lot of shady places late at night.”

Stiles slings a comforting arm over Scott’s shoulders. “Relax, Scott, he’s on thinner ice than you. My dad still isn’t done interviewing him, and until that happens he stays on the watch list, you know that.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Scott says. “Allison’s worried about him already. Last thing she needs is…is he still following us?”

They’re walking back to Scott’s place, because Melissa needs the car tonight and Stiles is not riding on Scott’s bike’s handlebars. It’s a bit of a hike, especially since they’ve been forced to take a more scenic route than usual, but in pleasant weather like this, not exactly torture, and the neighborhood is pretty in a mid-twentieth century, Anytown sort of way. Derek’s Camaro sticks out like someone cut-pasted it from a Ridley Scott flick.

“I feel like I’m in a public service alert,” Stiles says. He glances at the rearview mirror of the parked car they’re just passing, then throws up his hands and stomps into the road. “Hey! Hey, if you’re going to stalk me, can you at least—”

Laura Hale sticks her head out of the car. She grins and waves.

“Gah!” Scott says.

Stiles turns around. Derek is standing on the sidewalk in front of them. He frowns at Scott, who, werewolf reflexes notwithstanding, is sprawled bug-eyed on the concrete, and then looks up at Stiles. “Can we talk?” he says.

Scott, loyal friend that he is (if not the greatest bodyguard), scrambles up to his feet and grabs Stiles’ arm. “If you’re going to kidnap us, you take us both.”

“We’re not kidnapping anybody, drama queen.” Laura rolls up to them, then pulls the car along the curb and parks. She starts to go on, then snorts.

Unfazed, Derek just raises his eyebrows higher and makes gimme motions with his raised hand. Laura rolls her eyes and gets out of the car and then tosses Derek the keys. “We just want to talk,” he says, _definitely_ checking his car for damage. Then he turns back and jerks his chin at Scott. “You can come if you have to.”

“You seriously can’t just come up and ask me like a normal person?” Stiles asks. “Dude, I’ve looked into this, this is not part of standard negotiating procedure.”

“Well, we thought about that, but Cora said you’ve tripped twelve people, cherrybombed two bathrooms and made McCall here fake food poisoning to get away from her at school,” Laura says. “So we figured, odds you wouldn’t just run off weren’t great.”

Stiles takes this in. He’d really thought he’d been pretty subtle. The cherry bombs hadn’t even been attributed to him; he’d managed to pin that on two asshole friends of Whittemore. “Wait, wait, is this…were you _group_ stalking me? Did you just cut me out of the herd like I’m fucking Bambi?”

“Er, Stiles,” Scott says, in the worst whisper known to mankind. “That is, um, a legit tactic. You know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I _know_ ,” Stiles says. He rolls his eyes to cover up the fact that he’s flash-reviewing all the school days for the past two weeks. Shit, he’s been distracted. “Okay, fine, we can talk. What about?”

“Not here,” Derek says. He sighs. “You can call your dad, too, if you want. We’re just going over there.”

He points over their shoulders. Behind them is a cute little park, about the size of two vacant lots, with a sandbox and a swing set and a gazebo. Stiles could’ve sworn the gazebo had been empty, but now Peter Hale is sitting in it, with what looks like a cooler next to him. Peter smiles and waves just like Laura.

Stiles puts his face in his hand. Then he mans up, grabs Scott, and they go over to the goddamn gazebo. He might be a fucking disaster right now, but he’s not going to let a bunch of cheerful stalker wolves get the better of him.

“Hello, Stiles,” Peter says, all friendly and relaxed, like Stiles hadn’t left him high and extremely wet the last time they’d met. He opens up the cooler and offers Scott a soda. “McCall. How’s your mother?”

“Good,” Scott says. He takes the soda but sits with his back straight and his shoulders back, like he’s just waiting for Peter to push it.

Stiles sits next to him. Laura plops down on Scott’s other side, which throws him enough that he misses Stiles’ frantic cue about his bookbag, and so Derek is completely free to slide in next to Stiles. This would be the day that Stiles forgets his bag in his locker and figures it’s cool, he’ll get it tomorrow, he already did all his homework for the week in a late-Sunday-night fit of insomnia and Red Bull.

Fuck it. “What do you want?” Stiles says.

“Oh, just to correct a small miscommunication,” Peter says. He gives Stiles big, earnest eyes and spreads his empty palms. “Really, Stiles, there’s no hostile intent here. Laura’s presence should reassure you that we mean to do this properly.”

“I’m chaperoning,” Laura explains. She tilts her head at Stiles. “Because your dad is negotiating with Mom about the pack split?”

“The what?” 

All three Hales suddenly go very still and very sober. They stare at Stiles for so long, with so much obvious shock—and they really look like it’s not a _good_ shock—that he actually feels sort of guilty for doing that to them.

“I thought he’s talking to you about courting,” Stiles says.

“Yes, that’s…the same thing,” Peter says slowly. “We were under the impression you both—”

“Okay, if this is about whether my dad is doing things with my life without having me in the loop, lay the fuck off him. He’s not, we’re good, it’s just that this is—is some nuance I assume ends up being thirty pages into the fifty-page How to Date Werewolves handbook, and I’m sorry, okay, but I had to pull up Scott’s chemistry grade the night Dad gave me that.” It’s starting to make sense now. That stupid briefing, which Stiles hasn’t gotten around to reading yet because he’s been busy dodging the werewolves it’s about. “But he did give it to me, and anyway, he’s my dad, not yours, so take your judgment and screw it up your ass. Or give me the two-minute version already.”

“Oh! Oh, right. Splinter groups. Sometimes there are too many betas, so they split off and usually they get their own alpha, but they still have ties to their old alpha, so you have to have talks first. If you’re dating when you’re still in your old pack, you don’t have to do all that fancy stuff with allegiances,” Scott says. He looks pleased for a hot second at remembering all that. Then he sees how Stiles is looking at him and hunches over. “It never came up with me, okay? You know my dad’s an asshole, he never bothered formally bringing us into his pack.”

Stiles is still annoyed, but fine, it’s not really fair to take it out on Scott. He bumps his friend with an elbow, waits for Scott to relax, and then turns back to the Hales.

“I’m overdue to move out, really, and Derek’s recently decided he wants to go as well,” Peter says. He makes a little deprecating gesture. “And I suppose if you’re not familiar with our family, you might take our…different approaches as fighting. We’re sorry for any distress that caused, Stiles. It wasn’t our intent, and we do both value you as your own person.”

And…then he gets up and leaves. He and Derek both, though Derek stops for a moment to move the cooler from the opposite bench to right in front of Stiles. They don’t even try to scent him or anything.

“They really like you,” Laura says. She’s still sitting by Scott. “So I know it’s still early stages and all, and these things fall through for a whole bunch of reasons, but if you hurt them, I’m coming after you.”

She says that all in the same casual, airy tone that other people would use to gossip about the neighborhood scandal. Then she gets up, gives the cooler an extra nudge towards Stiles, and swings off across the park.

“So,” Scott says.

Stiles grimaces. He opens up the cooler and finds several bundles wrapped neatly in brown paper. They appear to be sandwiches. Someone’s written things like _porchetta + cheddar + butter greens_ and _roasted eggplant and peppers_ on them.

“I’m gonna call my dad,” Stiles says.

* * *

“I might have mentioned to Alpha Hale that all the recent hiker fatalities have had me out in the preserve a lot, and I’ve had to eat unmicrowaved microwavable lunches a couple times,” his dad admits, looking at the sandwiches. He eyes the roast rabbit and the porchetta ones, but grudgingly accepts the turkey. “Also, Stiles, it’s in their file. Peter came home when Alpha Hale’s first husband died in that mess with the Argents, and helped raise the kids. Otherwise yeah, male betas—”

“—tend to leave after college.” Stiles lets his feet kick under the table and prods morosely at the nearest sandwich. It’s the porchetta. He can practically smell the perfect pork fatty goodness, but he pries his hand away.

It ends up on the roasted veggies one. He resists for another moment, then picks it up, peels back the paper, and takes a bite. _So fucking good_.

“Stiles.” His dad leans over the table, looking concerned. “You know—”

“So, hypothetically, if I actually didn’t hate them,” Stiles mumbles around his sandwich. “Well, not much.”

His dad doesn’t say anything right away. Instead he unwraps his sandwich, and the two of them silently munch together. Sometimes they might make a little noise or two of appreciation. The food is really, really fucking good, and goddamn it, Stiles is not that easy.

He’s not. But it’s not just food.

“You know I just want you to be happy,” his dad says quietly. “And whatever that takes, you know I’ll be there for you. You’re not alone here, you’ve got a lot on your plate, and you’re handling it well but I worry you keep trying to take on more. You get to have your own life, Stiles. Don’t do it just for the job.”

“Yeah, dad,” Stiles sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

* * *

Stiles is Hale-free for about a week. Well, relatively—now that he’s looking for it, he can spot Cora and her gaggle of spies around school, and Derek’s Camaro seems to pop up in nearby parking lots a lot. Peter is a bit harder, until Scott lets drop that Peter and his mom went out on a date once. Which didn’t work out but they’ve stayed friendly and now Peter and Melissa have the same weekly poker group.

Not that Melissa’s going to give Stiles up, but she’s staying here by Alpha Hale’s permission and she’s also in on the courting negotiations scheme so it’d look weird if she completely stonewalled Peter.

Anyway, they’re spying on him (and ugh, okay, _fine_ , he’s twisted and covert op shenanigans are actually a total kink), but they’re not coming up and trying to talk to him anymore. It’s actually pretty considerate of them, since Stiles is spending way too much time being a frazzled mess in his room. He finds the werewolf courting brief and memorizes the whole fucking thing. And then double-checks all the references at the end, and writes three pointed letters to the research department about their sloppy citations and failure to cross-search in the Acadian folklore database.

Goddamn it. If they’re serious. If they’re serious, and if he stops running around long enough to admit he might, maybe, want to consider serious himself, at least explore the option…he’s still probably going to end up being the asshole.

His dad drags him out of his room and takes him out to the shooting range, since things on the darach front have quieted down. There’s still the odd dead hiker in the preserve and halfway through, his dad and Chris excuse themselves to take a call with Melissa, so they can argue over the necessity of a public service announcement about the dangers of dehydration and hypothermia. Looking like Chris might get his hunting license back, Stiles thinks idly, and riddles another paper target.

He puts his gun down and takes off his ear protectors, and hears his phone going off. Stiles frowns and goes back to his bag and takes it out. Ten o’clock on Sunday morning is a weird time for Gabriel to be calling.

* * *

Derek and Peter are, surprisingly, not jumping up to help Stiles.

“It’s against the rules,” Derek says.

Stiles looks at them. Then looks around the front yard of his house, where no other Hales can be found.

“Technicality, Stiles, we’re still on the public sidewalk. We’ll follow the rules when the rules are sensible, and in this case they are,” Peter lectures. Well, if lecturers sounded like they’re promising cream with the tea and biscuits, darling, for good boys only. “You’re supposed to have chaperones and avoid sex to protect against unscrupulous alphas.”

“Unscrupulous. Un _scru_ pulous.” Stiles says the word like he’s going over his SAT flashcards.

Peter drops the smarm. He looks at Stiles and sure, Stiles has knives up his sleeves and magic tricks and the whole U.S. government behind him, but Peter is a full-grown, blooded werewolf from a family that’s been here since before California got around to statehood, and he’s lived through a damn sight more than Stiles.

“You’re not fully committed yet, whatever your father says,” Peter says bluntly. “I didn’t particularly care when I just wanted to fuck you—”

Derek snorts.

“—aside from base curiosity,” Peter continues, with a sidelong scolding look at Derek. “Or when I thought your father was just humoring Talia with his offer. But I like you, Stiles, and I’d like you to _fuck_ me. Not fuck me over. And as much as Derek and I squabble, he’s my blood, and his fate matters to me.”

“Not to mention if these are all poachers, then they’re terrible because none of them have been carrying what they’re supposed to be poaching,” Derek says. He’s a good ten yards away and he still manages to make Stiles feel like he’s looming, what with the heavy brows and scowl. “I get that you can’t tell us everything, but you could at least trust us to not be idiots.”

Well. Stiles has done been told, hasn’t he.

Suddenly he feels really exhausted. His feet ache from running around in the woods all night, and his fingers hurt from constant online research. And he’s tired even under _that_. Tired from moving around, tired from keeping on trying to act like it’s okay, like it’s not a big deal to be uprooting his whole life every few months. Tired from having one friend, Scott, and half the time they’re stuck on texts and emails and video calls. Tired from worrying about his dad.

Tired from _not_ worrying about himself, because he’s always trusted that he can at least keep on his toes, but yeah, he’s fucked up here, hasn’t he? He’s completely dropped the ball.

“I…we’re not trying to lead you on,” Stiles starts slowly. He almost winces when both werewolves visibly relax. Oh, fuck, they actually do like him. “It’s just kind of—”

Derek suddenly jerks forward a step, his hand going to his neck. Peter twists backwards, half-wolfed, and then crumples to the ground. After another step, Derek does the same.

“Stiles,” Gabriel says, gliding out of the neighbor’s rhododendron. “So sorry to interrupt, but I have a business proposition for you, and it’s rather urgent.”

* * *

Gabriel is supposed to be in fucking hiding, waiting for witness protection to show up. He had called them to warn that a necromancer had decided to roll into town, so Stiles’ father and Melissa and Chris are now all out on the highway turn-off, waiting for him, while Stiles got sent back to convince the Hales to sit tight. Which Stiles didn’t do, because he had been suspicious enough to think that they needed a plan B that had people closer to the Nemeton, so that’s why he’d called up Derek and Peter.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s got to fix this.

“No, there is a necromancer,” Gabriel says, swanning around one of the club backrooms. “It’s just I thought I might as well stop waiting, and throw my own hat into the ring.”

“You’re taking a really long time to get to the point, if you’re in such a hurry,” Stiles says.

He’s sitting next to a big, padded table. It’s big enough that Derek and Peter (naked, because Gabriel is a perve _and_ an asshole) can stretch over it, arms over their heads, legs straight, and still have a couple inches of space all around. The drugs still have them limp and lolling, but even if they weren’t, the steel bands on their wrists and ankles are really thick. Padded with leather on the inside. Thick padding, actually. Gabriel does, after all, run a legit club.

It’s just he also apparently has delusions of returning to his Nordic roots. “The point, Stiles, is that your government’s policy on Nemetons is wrong-headed and foolish, and if no one else is going to raise their hand, then I will,” Gabriel says. “Someone who knows what they’re doing should be looking after it. Namely, me.”

“Great,” Stiles says.

Gabriel narrows his eyes. “You’ll come round. Or…”

He looks at Derek and Peter, then back at Stiles, who holds up his hands. Then he’s about to go on, probably to bitch about the Forest Service some more, when one of his lackeys comes into the room. Apparently, central command has decided that a necromancer is worth sending out more agents, and they’re due any time now.

Well, fucking great, Stiles thinks. They’re still not going to figure this shit out in time.

Gabriel leaves to reorganize, or whatever. He leaves two lackeys, who Stiles could take, even without any of his gear, but they’re in the middle of the club and Stiles doesn’t know how many more there might be. And well, Derek and Peter.

Who are maybe awake now. They both have their heads turned away from Stiles, but he spots Peter’s hand curling down, claws just brushing the cuff padding. He gets off his seat and both lackeys snap to him. “Hey, hey, not doing anything,” he says, hands high. He edges slowly around the table till he’s next to one of those rolling carts, which is all set out with lube and sounds and dildos and some other things. Looks like Gabriel was laying out for a patron before he decided to go all villainous. “I’m just bored, okay? We’re gonna be here for a while.”

The lackeys are not amused. One points at the empty chair. “Sit down.”

“I’m not going to do anything to _you_ ,” Stiles says. He glances over at the cart, then, like he’s moving through molasses, lowers his hand and picks up a dildo. Which is dangling a very bulky battery pack on a thick plastic-covered cord, and which has little metal patches set into it here and there. “See? Electrostim. Electricity’s bad for werewolves, keeps them from healing and being super-strong and all that. So, hey, I’m helping you out, making your job easier.”

The pack bounces and rattles against the metal cart. It’s making one lackey twitchy, and the other one still looks kind of dubious. 

“Stiles?” Derek grunts. He’s slurring, trying to shake his head. “What the…”

The lackeys move like they’re going to come in, and Stiles bites his tongue and scrambles across the room and onto the table next to Derek. “Hey, no, no, I said electrocute him! You hit him, that’ll just trigger the healing process and presto! Drugs gone!”

“He’s right,” says one lackey to the other. “That’s true.”

And…they do not come in and whale on Stiles either. Stiles is not ashamed of the deep breath he lets out. He wipes his hand over his face, then looks at them. “Um, one of you get me some lube? You took mine.”

While they dither about who’s going to come in and do it, Stiles reaches down and runs his hand lightly up Derek’s back, till he’s tangling his fingers in Derek’s hair. Derek tries to crane his head around, but he can’t lift it enough. “What…” he tries again.

“Oh, nothing,” Stiles says. He digs his nails into Derek’s hairline, till Derek’s pupils look less blown and more focused, and then slides his hand around to cup Derek’s jaw and help the man turn his head. “Just a little show. Okay? C’mon, Derek, you did it before.”

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs. He maybe nods. His voice is so low it’s crawling on its belly, and blurry at the end, and then Derek hitches his hips against the table, plumping his ass up. His tongue comes out and flattens against Stiles’ palm, a thick wet slap and then a long, lingering taste. “Alpha. _Alpha_.”

“Here,” says a lackey, and tosses Stiles a tube of lubricant.

Stiles has to remove his hand from Derek’s mouth to catch it. He botches the catch a little, juggling the tube, because Derek’s spit and also Derek’s fucking _voice_ , saying that, and then he gets the damn thing open.

Derek humps his hips back, his knees trying to jerk wider when Stiles settles between them. He flattens his shoulders to the table, then starts grinding them in place, moaning when Stiles sinks a finger into him. There’s a metallic screech and the lackeys jump, then realize Derek is trying to bite through the table.

It’s tight, and Derek’s feet being locked down only a foot and a half or so apart means there’s not a lot of room to maneuver. Stiles has to sit up and bear down to get his three fingers in, and the whole time Derek is rutting under him, sweat jiggling between the flexing muscles in his back. Derek’s tattoo stretches and waves under the effort like it’s a mirage rising off the road in summer heat. And Derek is goddamn well chanting now, gravelly and ragged, _alpha alpha alpha_.

He collapses with a long, jagged whine when Stiles pulls out his fingers. One of the lackeys makes a sucked-in, disappointed noise, and that breaks Stiles out of fuck, his near-haze. Stiles rubs at the side of his face, letting a nail or two catch him, and then pushes the dildo into Derek.

“Fuck, alpha,” Derek groans. He tries to twist to the side when Stiles flicks up the end of the dildo, then arches so hard his spine pops. His fangs and his claws disappear, and he lets out a harsh, strangled cry.

“See,” Stiles says, sounding like _his_ throat just got torn out. He holds up the battery pack. “Electricity. Stops them.”

He turns it off and Derek goes limp, face pressed as close as it can get to one arm. Stiles chews his lip and climbs over Derek’s leg to crouch between him and Peter, trying to not feel the tiny pit of cold in his gut.

Derek’s shoulder moves. Stiles breathes out.

“Okay, fine,” a lackey says. “But what about the other one?”

Stiles wipes his hand over his face again. He looks down at Peter, then nudges Peter’s hip with his hand. Then he frowns and pushes at Peter again, harder. “Peter? Jesus, what did you give him?”

“He’s faking,” lackey says. “I’m not stupid, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah, well, fuck you.” Stiles scoots up to kneel by Peter’s head, then bends over to try and look Peter in the eye. He wraps his hand around Peter’s neck and pulls Peter’s head back, and then he throws himself off the table.

Lands on his ass and one knee, _ow_ , but it gets him out of the way. Derek goes over his head, trailing broken manacles, and then Peter jerks his hands down and _out_ of his cuffs, shredded leather padding falling in strips around him. He grabs the lackey Derek has thrown to him, smashes his neck over the table’s edge, and then breaks the ankle cuffs.

“So orgasm works for a kickstart too,” Stiles says, blinking. “I’ve never been so glad to have a crackpot theory be right in my life.”

Derek drops his dead lackey and takes a step towards Stiles. He opens his mouth.

Then he and Peter snap to attention, hearing something. Stiles can guess, and while they disappear into the hall, he starts digging frantically in all the cabinets and chests in the room. Okay, so fine, Gabriel is actually a _good_ club operator. Why the fuck he can’t stick to that is…not Stiles’ problem.

When the Hales pop back in, Stiles pitches some pants at them. Derek momentarily looks like he’s considering not even bothering, but Peter slaps the back of his head, dragging on a pair one-handed. Then Peter grabs Stiles, who is just getting a gun off the stupid corpse, okay, not dicking around, and they head out through the club.

“You all right?” Derek asks at one point, smashing a guy into a marble panel.

“I’m fine, peachy.” Stiles lets the other two handle the fighting because he’s trying to text about five different people at once and shred through Gabriel’s warding runes with a fucking ballpoint pen and a kitchen knife. “You weren’t that drugged, right?”

Derek breaks an arm and then comes close to removing a kidney. “We were, but we knew it was you.”

“What he’s saying is, we’re fine, no need for guilt on our behalf,” Peter mutters. He shakes some blood off his claws and then stoops to look Stiles in the face. “Stiles. What does he—”

“The Nemeton. I need to get to the preserve,” Stiles says. He re-carves the last rune, then stands up. “Now.”

* * *

Stiles’ phone is blowing up by the time Peter pulls up the car at the end of the road in the preserve, and none of it is useful. His dad is fine, thankfully, but the necromancer still has them tied up, and even Scott and Allison have gotten dragged into it. Their reinforcements aren’t going to be around for another ten minutes, and nobody’s seen Gabriel.

“What does he want with it?” Peter asks. “I thought the Forest Service wanted to seal it off. It’s been inactive for years.”

“Is he trying to wake it back up?” Derek says. “Shouldn’t we get something to dig it up with?”

“It’s not _inactive_ , it’s just been developing,” Stiles says irritably. He scrubs his face and wonders if he’s really doing this. “Nemetons aren’t inherently evil, okay, they’re magical ecological keystones. It’s just you also have to feed them dead people so people got the wrong idea for a long time, but there’s a reason why they’re on the endangered species list.”

Peter slews around and he looks absolutely fascinated. “I did know that, but I assumed it was because the government saw the usefulness of having steady sources of magic and natural body disposal.”

“Uh, well, honestly, that too.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “Nemetons need a proper guardian, or else they go bad and you have to destroy them. Gabriel’s not a proper guardian.”

“Got it, he’s dead,” Derek says, and gets out of the car.

They get to the Nemeton before Gabriel, thank fucking everything. Derek immediately takes off again to go set a perimeter and get the rest of the Hales, while Peter keeps Stiles company with the tree. Okay, still a stump, although the shoots springing up around the edges are thick as Stiles’ wrist. The last time he’d swung by, they’d been the size of his finger.

“Keystone,” Peter says. He sits down on a protruding root and scratches some dried blood off his wrist.

Stiles sits down between him and the stump. “If it’s healthy, it’s a sink for excess magic. Areas with a healthy Nemeton show a forty percent reduction in the number of freak curses, malicious spirits, and schizophrenia. But if you take one out without doing your homework, you’re basically leaving this gigantic hole that anything can walk through. Four of the last five Category Six—which is Judgment Day to you—events in the last century can be traced directly back to improperly uprooted Nemetons.”

Peter looks at Stiles not just like he’s fascinated, but like he’s literally just fascinated with whatever Stiles is talking about. No parallel track about how best to get Stiles worked up or undressed, just listening. “You really are in the Forest Service.”

“You…thought we weren’t?” Stiles says.

“Stiles. When we first met, you’d killed Derek’s blind date and stuffed her in the trunk of her own car.” Peter grins, then reaches over and brushes an affectionate finger over Stiles’ cheek. “Oh, don’t worry, you bluff much better than Derek does, and he’s had a good few years’ more practice. I’m just very well-versed in the area. And before you ask, no, we are, in fact, a _good_ pack. We had word she was a darach, same as you, I assume.”

“Okay.” Clearly, whatever alert system the Hales are on, Stiles needs to get his hands on it. “So what’d you think we were, then?”

“Well, Derek thought you might have some sort of personal vendetta, Talia was pushing for bounty hunters, and Francis thought you might be from the NSA.” Peter shakes his head. “He studied a few years in England and I think it infected him with James Bond fantasies. Anyway, Laura and I were both betting on druids. Our pack prefers to take a proactive approach in managing the area, and Deaton did promise us his successors would be…understanding about that.”

Stiles shifts on the root. Peter’s still turned towards him, practically leaning a really nicely-muscled, really bare chest against Stiles’ arm. Blood and dirt is dabbled here and there on Peter, and Stiles was right there, he knows there wasn’t a fucking make-up artist doing it, but the streaks and smears seem precisely placed to make Stiles look at places he probably shouldn’t. He lost his boner back at the club, what with all the gutting and running and rune-working, but now his body’s thinking they’re out of the danger zone. 

“Um, I’m not a druid. Sure, I know runes and stuff, but I’m, um, more botanically oriented,” he says. He twists in place a little, getting his back against some of the Nemeton shoots, and Peter manages to shuffle another couple inches closer, one hand sneaking up the root between Stiles’ legs. “Besides, that keeping the balance shit, that works all fine and dandy if you wanna think you’ve got a closed system, but anybody who’s studied macro-ecology knows that’s a pipe dream.”

He grabs Peter’s wrist, and Peter somehow does a weird little looping motion, and suddenly Stiles’ hand is on Peter’s thigh. “And the Forest Service doesn’t believe in pipe dreams?” Peter purrs.

“The Forest Service believes in sustainable management,” Stiles grits out. “Sometimes you gotta burn out the whole place to make room for better shit. Peter, listen—”

He grabs Peter’s thigh and yanks hard. Peter slides forward, then claws himself to a stop. But Stiles is already climbing on top of him, so after a startled laugh, Peter lets himself fall onto his back. His hair tangles into a patch of mushrooms as he spreads his legs, crooks his wrists so Stiles can get a better grip, pinning them next to his hips. He’s already half-hard, outline of his cock swinging under the loose pants.

“Okay, so look,” Stiles says.

Peter looks and Stiles puts his mouth over where he thinks the head of Peter’s cock is. He sucks in fabric, feels it dry out his mouth and then start to go sodden with spit on one side, precome on the other. He can feel the cock swelling up and he opens his mouth wider, gets it all around the head. Digs in with his tongue, seeing if he can feel out the slit. He can’t, the fabric’s too thick, but it makes Peter’s head thump back. Peter’s wrists tense to steel under Stiles’ hands and Stiles can hear grass and dirt getting ripped up as Peter tries to not just break free.

“Stiles,” Peter says when Stiles lifts his head. He’s breathless, the ‘s’ sound shivering over half-dropped fangs, but he’s still looking pretty composed. “ _What_?”

“I’m trying to remember whether this is just gonna restart negotiations, or whether we’re werewolf-eloping here,” Stiles says. Then he lets go of Peter’s hands and pulls down Peter’s pants. Walks his knees over it, sets one on the crumpled fabric, and bobs down to take half of Peter’s cock into his mouth.

Peter sucks back whatever he’d been about to say in favor of trying to shove the rest of his cock into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles just rises up the same amount, and then, when Peter’s dropped his hips, snarling in frustration, he swallows till his lips are brushing up against coarse hair. He senses something come near his head and he slaps off Peter’s hand, then yanks his mouth off.

“So here’s the thing,” he says over Peter’s growling. “We’re actually here for the Nemeton, not just the preserve. ‘cause I come from a long, long line of guardians, except—my family’s tree died with my mom, so I’m looking for a new one.”

He ducks back down and licks up the side of Peter’s cock, chasing a dribble of precome around the head. Peter tears up a good five-inch strip of sod trying to get his breath under control.

“The hikers,” Peter gasps.

“Yeah, um, fertilizer. And they weren’t hikers, they were all drug kingpins or evil scientists or serial killer vamps that the regular legal process was taking too long for. So Francis isn’t _totally_ wrong on the NSA thing. We don’t report to them, but we work with them a lot,” Stiles says. He plays with Peter’s scrotum, rubbing his thumb over it to feel it get taut and hot, then drags his fingers up and down Peter’s cock. “But obviously, I can’t go around just _saying_ I’m a government wetworker with a green thumb, can I?”

Peter half-heartedly bites back a growl. He throws his head to one side, burrowing it against the side of the root, like if he doesn’t look, Stiles won’t take his cock between forefinger and thumb and then lightly squeeze at one-inch intervals. “Understandable,” he says. He pants a few times, then wrenches his head to the other side and pushes his chin up and back and lets out a full-throated moan. “But—but you didn’t think we’d care about _that_ , did you? Now?”

“Uh, no. It’s more, well, guardian matching is hard, and we’ve already tried eight different trees.” Stiles wraps his mouth around just the head of Peter’s cock. 

Peter’s getting more frantic now. He keeps his hands down but bows his back abruptly, hips almost completely off the ground. It doesn’t work any better than the last time, and when he slumps back, Stiles lets his teeth catch behind the bulge of the cock head. Then drops his jaw so it slips completely out, despite Peter’s urgent buck upwards.

“It’s just—really exhausting. We show up, feed the damn thing, get it nice and healthy again, and then nada. Nothing. Fucking thing doesn’t even say thank you,” Stiles says. Then he catches himself, and loosens his grip on Peter’s thighs. The bruises are already fading and Peter doesn’t even seem to have noticed, feverish eyes fixed on Stiles’ face, but Stiles still grimaces. “I gotta find one eventually, and wherever the fuck that is, that’s where I gotta go. I’m actually okay with that, I’m tired of losing our goddamn furniture, but that’s just me. And I swear to God, if you say _no biggie, we’re werewolves, we follow our alpha_ , I will get up and fucking leave. This isn’t the Dark Ages, it’s not that easy, and I might kill people for the feds but I am _not_ gonna be that guy.”

“S— _Stiles_ ,” Peter grates out. He wants to say something else completely, his whole throat convulsing in a way that makes Stiles reach for him, worried he’s choking. But then Peter jerks his head at something behind Stiles. He tries to sit up and his arms are jerking funny, and then Stiles looks down and sees there are roots coiling around Peter’s wrists.

He whips around. There’s a giant fucking oak spreading over them. A full-on tree, not a stump. He tilts his head back and an acorn drops past his head.

“What—” Stiles says, and then it hits him.

It’s like a lightning bolt of rainbows and razor blades. It hits him in his eyes, his gut, his knees. His _dick_ —he’s dimly aware that he’s screaming, but he’s having the best orgasm of his entire _life_ , and at the same time he feels like his bones are being popped out of his skin with a dull teaspoon. _Holy_.

* * *

“—iles, Stiles,” someone is saying. “Stiles!”

“What?” Stiles blinks into dirt.

It gets in his eyes and is gritty. He pushes himself up on one arm and rubs the dirt out, then looks around. Peter stares back at him.

Peter is still naked. Still tied down with roots, although judging from the blood running over his hands, he’s been trying to change that. He’s in the middle of a relieved exhale, his eyes wide and…kind of raw like Stiles wouldn’t have expected from the guy. “Alpha,” he says, clearly not thinking. He blinks. “Stiles. Stiles, say something.”

Stiles opens his mouth, and then Derek crashes into view. Literally, throwing up a bunch of leaves and twigs. Some of it falls Peter’s way and Stiles barely thinks before a breeze intervenes, veering the debris off before it actually hits Peter.

Derek has a body with him. It’s Gabriel, still technically alive but only for a couple more seconds. There’s a big-ass hole in Gabriel’s chest where his heart should be, and Derek’s arm is bloody up to the elbow. His pants are torn off at the knees. “What the hell happened?” Derek demands. “We were fighting and then the trees went insane. This root came three feet out of the ground and grabbed my legs, and another one speared him, and then they wouldn’t let go till I heard you screaming.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, I think that’s normal.” Stiles is weirdly fixated on the blood on Derek’s arm. He knows he’s being weird about it, the same distant way he knows he’s breathing, and then he’s half-sprawled over Peter, gripping Derek’s wrist, and it just seems like what he should do.

Derek stiffens but doesn’t struggle. “Stiles, what…”

He and Peter both growl when Stiles bends over and licks up some of the blood. It’s not a menacing growl or anything. No, actually Peter’s starting to roll his hips again, and he’s still got a very hard cock and it’s rubbing up against Stiles’ leg. Stiles sucks his way up Derek’s arm, then laps at the little sticky pool that’s collected in the elbow crook.

“I thought you were a vegetarian,” Derek says. He twists around so Stiles can get a better angle, and ends up pressing his head into Stiles’ side. His other hand lands on Peter’s shoulder and starts kneading, like he’s feline instead of lupine.

“It’s, um, situational,” Stiles mumbles around Derek’s arm. “Yeah, most of the time, but Nemeton’s, um, shit, sort of periodically omnivorous…”

“He’s tied to the tree now, the tree needs fresh blood, he didn’t know beforehand and thought he and his father would have to transfer again,” Peter suddenly rattles off, and then he brings his knees up and clamps them around Stiles’ hips, forcing their groins together. “Stiles, _alpha_ , please.”

Stiles can see Peter’s arched throat around Derek’s arm. He sort of unintentionally chews Derek’s arm, down by the wrist, and Derek presses his head harder against Stiles’ side, shuddering. His weight crushes Stiles further onto Peter, who is flat-out begging, holy shit, all _alpha, please, alpha, I can’t_ , and making ragged throaty whimpers in between. When Stiles gets hold of himself enough to get a hand down there, Peter throws his head back and seesaws his hips up into Stiles like they’re falling apart on him.

He snarls a little when Stiles doesn’t touch his cock, and then Derek snakes his free hand under Peter’s head and helps hold it up while Peter rocks and gasps. Stiles twists his hand behind Peter’s balls, grinds his knuckles up against the perineum. Pries his mouth off Derek’s arm and ducks under it and latches onto Peter’s throat with his teeth, right where it joins with the shoulder.

Peter comes, shuddering, jamming his skin into Stiles’ mouth so it tears even on blunt human teeth. Stiles laps at the drops of blood, then smacks lazily at Derek, who’s pushing him over. Derek whines, like he’s sorry, but doesn’t stop nosing in between Stiles and Peter, or pulling at Stiles' clothes. He starts licking up all the come, the fresh stuff from Peter and even the half-dried streaks from Stiles with the whole bonding thing a couple minutes ago.

“So. Um.” Stiles props his chin up on Peter’s shoulder and tries to think. Then he has to lift his head, because Peter keeps hissing and jerking because he’s oversensitized, not that Derek seems to care. “Thanks for the tree. But this doesn’t—you know, make you obligated or anything. It’s my deal, not yours.”

Derek picks up his head. He looks at Stiles for a second, then rolls his eyes. “I still don’t know what the hell happened before I got here, but you’re an idiot. If we didn’t like you we wouldn’t call you alpha.”

“Well put for once, nephew.” Peter raises his hand. He blinks once in surprise, seeing it’s free, and then reaches up and cups Stiles’ cheek.

He pulls Stiles down for a kiss that’s sloppy, but a little softer than Stiles was expecting. Then he tucks his head under Stiles’ jaw. He nuzzles at the underside and slaps Derek on the back of the head.

“But don’t call your alpha an idiot,” Peter says.

“Nah.” Stiles pauses, then lets himself just…stop for a second. Stop and chill and snuggle back onto Peter. “Nah, it’s okay, you’re cute when you do that scowl.”

He reaches down and touches some blood on the side of Derek’s neck. Derek looks torn between annoyance and lust, and then lust wins out because Stiles hooks two fingers under Derek’s chin and drags him up. They make out a little, and then Stiles sucks off that bloody streak, and sucks a brief hickey onto Derek’s throat while he’s at it.

“So, I should call my dad,” Stiles says. “See if me thinking about crushing the necromancer with a branch worked or not.”

Peter idly traces a muddy smear on Derek’s bicep, breathing slow and deep against Stiles’ throat. “Mmm.”

“He’s gonna have to talk to Talia again, isn’t he?” Stiles says.

“Yeah, but she won’t make a big deal out of it,” Derek says, butting his head into Stiles’ shoulder. He’s rubbing himself lazily against Peter’s hip. “She likes him almost as much. Deaton was never real big on the hands-on stuff, it was irritating.”

“I wanna date,” Stiles says. He rolls his eyes when the other two look puzzled. “I never get to. I mean, I don’t want flowers and cheesy violins in the restaurant, okay? But it’d be nice if I could catch a movie where I’m not killing somebody in the back row, or eat a good burger and fries without having a body in my car trunk.”

Peter nods in understanding. “Of course. Pick you up at…eight tomorrow?”

“We’re taking my car,” Derek mutters.

“Okay,” Stiles says.

* * *

Stiles’ dad hugs him so hard that his ribs creak. “I’m glad,” he says when he finally lets up. “Really, really, glad, Stiles. You were getting so hard on yourself, I was worried—but that’s all done. I’ll go put in for a permanent position first thing after clean-up. And get them to give us our goddamn furniture, for God’s sake.”

“You’re good with here too, right?” Stiles says. “And don’t try to fake me out, you were all, I don’t know, Stiles, Beacon Hills? The McCalls are there but it’s a pretty busy posting, don’t you want to try something a little…more…lowkey…”

Stiles’ dad has just twitched his eyes to the side. Which is where Melissa is standing. She blushes and, okay, yeah, that’s been coming for a while. But Chris Argent is standing right next to her, and now that Stiles is looking, Chris has his dad’s jacket on and Melissa has one of Chris’s guns. Chris isn’t exactly blushing, but he looks like he thinks he should’ve stayed in the ambulance.

“…oh, my _God_ ,” Scott moans beside Stiles. “ _Mom_?”

“Dad?” Allison squeaks. “Wait, I thought you were seeing that bitch from the hunting club?”

“Don’t call her a bitch, Allison,” Chris says, wincing.

“Though she was a necromancer scout, and we had to shoot her,” Melissa says, with relish.

Allison looks sort of better about it, while Scott still looks like he might pass out. Stiles is…well, surprised, yeah, and man, he’s been letting so much slip by him. He’s going to have to keep a closer eye on his dad.

But if his dad is happy, that’s what matters. And his dad looks a little embarrassed, but he’s grinning behind the hand he’s rubbing over his face. “I’m good,” he tells Stiles. Then he grimaces. “Shit, Alpha Hale.”

“Is thrilled to welcome a guardian of your caliber into the family,” Talia says, striding up. “A strong Nemeton and government health insurance, wonderful. And excellent tactical skills, Mr. Stilinski. You really _must_ tell me how you managed that one with the gas station and the tripwire.”

Derek and Peter, and Laura, who’s trailed her mother over, all look slightly concerned. “She and your stepdad are happy, right?” Stiles hisses to Derek.

“Yeah…” Derek says, still staring at his mother.

“Quiet, if she’s not thinking about it, don’t give her ideas,” Laura hisses back.

Peter pats Stiles absently on the shoulder. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s just tweaking Argent’s nose,” he murmurs.

Chris does, in fact, look like he’s measuring up Talia, and like he might have had that idea before. But it’s Melissa who grabs Stiles’ dad’s arm, and, with a big, toothy smile, says, “Oh, that was my set-up. Thank you, Alpha Hale, I’m flattered.”

“Okay.” Stiles loves his dad, but he’s not a saint. He turns his head into Peter’s shoulder. “Okay, take me home, I have school tomorrow, or early lacrosse practice, or _something_ , God, just, I don’t need to see this.”

Peter laughs, and wraps an arm around him. Derek’s already got his car keys out.

* * *

Their furniture finally shows up nineteen days later. They end up throwing half of it out, because their first rental isn’t big enough with all the people coming in and out, and the Hales, of course, have local real estate connections that get Stiles and his dad a big, roomy house with a backyard fronting the preserve. 

And furniture-shopping _so_ counts as dating. Gotta test the bed, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve read X/1999 and/or anything about the Sakurazukamori, my take on the Nemeton will seem familiar, although I wouldn’t characterize this as a crossover. Also, I haven’t seen season 3 of _Teen Wolf_ , just consulted the TW wiki.
> 
> Stiles manages being a long-serving employee of the Forest Service and being only 18 because one, it's a special, top-secret division that doesn't play by the rules others do, and two, they figured if he's going to pop up at crime scenes anyway, might as well put him to work.
> 
> Ecosystem engineers, keystone species and the gray wolf, look it up. This started out as just an excuse to string together some porn scenes, but the more I think about it, the more I'm really fascinated at the idea of a universe where supernatural creatures are fully integrated into the ecosystem, and managing supernatural communities from that standpoint, as opposed to the usual focus on killing/not killing humans.
> 
> I realize Scott gets sort of milquetoasted here. Somebody has to be comic relief if Stiles is going to be the hero. Sorry, Scott.


End file.
